


Closer

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895, Clueless Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Pining, Prompt Fic, Protective John, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sharing a sofa, Slow Build, They are so so in love, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14765999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: —in which John teaches Sherlock about human touch.John releases a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, a satisfied sigh of relief, and he presses his own face into Sherlock’s smooth, thick curls. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, relishing the scent of John’s aftershave. “Very good.” And he means it.—————This story is an entry for the June #Always1895 fic prompt challenge—the theme: cuddling!





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> “You touched me like there was more to me than skin.” -Emma Bleker

When one shares living quarters with another person, it’s not out of the ordinary to occasionally return home to find them... _in_ _flagrante_. Watching embarrassing telly; dancing in the front room; doing something scandalous with a lover. Perhaps even all three at once.

But when one is living with Sherlock Holmes, one never, ever knows what to expect. And when returning to Baker Street, John often finds Sherlock in the midst of a questionable experiment that involves eyeballs or fingers or the scent that arises from various elemental combinations.

John doesn’t know the half of it, of course, which is an arrangement that works well for the both of them. Explaining _obvious_ things is something that Sherlock finds quite tiresome, and John has simply learned, through experience, how blissful ignorance can be.

So when John comes home one evening to find Sherlock in the throes of his cuddling experiment, there is really no conversation to be had. Sherlock simply lies, sprawled across the sofa, arms around his most prized possession (microscope), and John is clearly unruffled.  

John is quietly grateful for the lack of imminent danger, and that nothing seems to have recently exploded, and Sherlock is proud that John has seemed to learn. Though Sherlock actively wonders if John’s lack of curiosity is due to the fact that Sherlock is conducting the cuddling experiment successfully, because he truly feels that is not the case.  

“Evening, Sherlock,” John greets him amicably as he strolls into the kitchen to make tea, or to text one of his girlfriends, or whatever.

“Mm,” Sherlock says, hugging his microscope closer to himself, and that’s that.

John also says nothing the next evening, when he arrives home to find Sherlock lying on his back on the floor, his violin enveloped in his long, lanky arms. John wonders briefly if it’s damaging to the strings, but it’s Sherlock, so he doesn’t question it. And Sherlock is quite happy that John is not asking, because he already feels ridiculous, and silly, and confused.

Surely, there is a reason why people enjoy this _cuddling_ lark, but Sherlock can’t seem to figure out what it is.

“Evening, Sherlock,” John says with his always-cordial smile, and he heads off into the kitchen to make food, or mop the floor, or whatever.

“Mm,” Sherlock hums, squeezing his violin so tightly that the E string pops, and that’s that.

By the third day of the experiment, Sherlock has concluded that it is all maddeningly nonsensical. And when John arrives home to find his flatmate perched in his armchair, legs tucked against his body, enveloping the mantel skull in his arms... it’s only then that he begins to ask questions.

Sherlock’s face is adorned with subtle frustration, his focus on the wall in front of him as he runs his fingers delicately over the top of the cranium. In the corner of his eye, he notices John hesitate at the entryway. John removes his coat, and hangs it on the hook, and Sherlock can feel the burn of his enquiring eyes upon him.

John blinks a few times before he speaks. “Sherlock,” he says, with an air of caution.

“Mm,” Sherlock responds, not moving his eyes to meet his, because he’s feeling rather judged at the moment.

“You’re... cuddling.” John clears his throat to help punctuate his point. “With a skull.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock responds, and that’s that.

Only it isn’t. Not this time, because John presses on. He leans into one leg, tilting his head towards Sherlock, and finally asks The Question.

“Why?”

Sherlock huffs, swiftly plopping the soles of his feet onto the floor. “Why, indeed, John. It makes no sense. Mrs. Hudson’s magazine says that cuddling can boost one’s endorphins, and release high levels of oxytocin in the brain.” He stands up, dropping the skull onto the coffee table unceremoniously, annoyed at his decidedly-low levels of oxytocin. “Yet I feel _nothing,_ John, and I am even cuddling with items I am very deeply fond of.”

John knows that he shouldn’t be laughing at Sherlock, and Sherlock _knows_ that John knows, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it. Sherlock narrows his eyes at John in irritation, and his oxytocin levels drop through the floor.

John finds Sherlock’s absolute cluelessness when it comes to the ins and outs of daily life both agitating and delightful, and Sherlock finds that a tad condescending.

“I’m sorry,” John says, his laughter beautiful and annoying, and he attempts to steady his voice before continuing. “Normally, cuddling involves another _person_ you are fond of, not an inanimate object.”

“Oh,” Sherlock exhales with a bit of defeat. “That doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest.” He commences pacing back and forth, his dressing gown flowing with his steps, and he is on edge that his experiment has gone awry. 

John regards him with a look that could either be interpreted as fond or pitying, depending on the observer’s current mood. And Sherlock’s mood isn’t so great at the moment, so it’s rather a good thing that he’s too busy pacing to notice.

“Well,” John muses, his tone controlled, “perhaps touching people just isn’t your thing. Nothing wrong with that.” And he turns to the kitchen, probably to text one of his girlfriends, or to mop the floor, or to escape the conversation, or whatever.

But Sherlock isn’t ready for John to escape, and he strides into the kitchen to join him. “What do you mean, John?” he asks.

John pulls out the tea kettle and turns on the tap, not looking up as he fills it with water. “Touching,” he says. “Human contact. Skin to skin.”

Sherlock can’t think of a thing to say, so he doesn’t respond. John can only take that to mean that Sherlock is listening closely; a rare occurrence, indeed, which is not lost on him.

“It’s not for everyone, really,” John continues, setting the tea kettle on the stove. “But for some people, it can be pretty amazing.”

Sherlock is surprised at how piqued his curiosity is, because it’s something he has always decidedly found quite uninteresting.

“The simple act of touching, for some people, can be extremely pleasurable,” John explains, his eyes remaining averted. “Holding someone’s hand, or having somebody in your arms, can be more meaningful than kissing, or even sex.”

Sherlock remains uncharacteristically silent, and John senses something in the air shift, but he fights the urge to look up at him for his response.

Sherlock speaks before John gets the chance to. “I suppose I wouldn’t know,” he muses. “I’ve never tried any of those things.”

Sherlock’s head becomes cluttered as they both stand in silence.

“Am I missing out, John?” Sherlock asks, and they are both surprised by the shade of wistfulness in his voice. John cannot help but look up at him at this point, his eyes scanning Sherlock’s face.  

The question is so candid, so innocent. John’s heart twists the tiniest bit as he wonders how his friend, though an absolute prat at times, has never experienced human touch in a way that is meaningful to him.

“I don’t know,” is John’s honest answer, and Sherlock doesn’t know, as well.

Sherlock’s elbow rests on one arm, his chin in his hand, his mouth pressed together in deep thought, and John watches him, a confusing mixture of fondness and protectiveness brewing within him.

And then the kettle begins to sing, pulling John back into the present. “Tea?” he asks, if only to break the tension.

“No thank you,” Sherlock says, because he doesn’t want to talk about tea.

“Suit yourself,” John responds, and pours him some anyway. “Touch is different for everyone,” he states, feeling an odd pull to continue the conversation. “Some like it, some don’t, and some people like to be touched in different ways.” He bites the inside of his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Some enjoy cuddling, but some enjoy simply holding hands, or hugging, or an arm around their waist. It really just depends on the person.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flash with a hint of understanding. “So how do I know how a person likes to be touched?”

“You can always ask,” John responds. “In fact, it’s probably a very good idea.”

“So,” Sherlock muses. “If I were to approach a person, and ask how to touch them, would I... would they… find that enjoyable?”

John laughs again, and then quickly smiles at Sherlock, though he finds his naïveté increasingly heartbreaking. “Not just any person,” he says. “God, no, that could be bad.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“Well, if you’re going to touch a person, that person has got to _know_ you, and _like_ you, and you ought to like them back. But yeah, the key element is consent. You should _always_ ask first.”  

“Oh,” Sherlock says, his forehead crinkling as the puzzle pieces fall together. “That makes sense.”

“Good,” John says, and he means it.  “Glad I could clear that up for you a bit.” He lifts up the tray of tea, and begins to carry it into the front room. As he passes Sherlock by, he finds it hard not to notice that Sherlock is staring at him with a strange intensity. It’s not so rare an occurrence, but there’s something new and unsettling to it.

“Sherlock,” John says, looking up at him, steadying the tray in his grasp. “What’s the matter?”

Sherlock continues to stare at John—studious, deliberate. There’s clearly something that he wants to ask. Something he is unsure of, something he is trying to figure out how to do.

“John,” he finally utters, his voice more timid than John has ever heard it.

“Yeah?” John replies, the corners of his mouth peeking upwards, which gives Sherlock all the courage he needs.

“May I... touch you?” 

John struggles not to drop the tray of tea onto the floor. “Sherlock—” he sputters, but it’s too late for Sherlock to take it back. “I don’t necessarily know—” His face is red, his ears prickling with heat. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

Sherlock releases a tired breath of exasperation. “But… I _like_ you,” he says, and he means it.

John swallows thickly, his throat dry. “Yeah,” he says. “Thank you.”

“And you like me,” Sherlock says, hoping he is not wrong. 

John smiles at him warmly, melting the knot in Sherlock’s stomach. “Yeah,” John says. “I like you, Sherlock. I like you a lot.”

“And I asked if it would be okay,” Sherlock says carefully. “I did everything you told me to do.”

John finds all of Sherlock’s points inarguably valid. He also finds that at some point, he’d ventured to the kitchen table and set down the tray of tea.

“True,” John says. “You did.”

“So what should I have done differently?”

“Nothing,” John reassures him, his head starting to feel light. “You did nothing wrong, Sherlock. It’s just that… only certain types of touching are generally acceptable between friends, and yeah, it’s sort of limited.”  

“Alright,” Sherlock says, breathing steadily. “Perhaps, then, you can show me what’s acceptable.”

John takes a deep breath, and a step towards Sherlock, and he isn’t prepared for the feeling of anticipation propelling him forward. “Okay,” he agrees. “I suppose I can do that.”

He doesn’t break their gaze as he gingerly lifts his hand, setting it lightly, palm down, onto the outside of Sherlock’s upper arm.

The moment their skin makes contact, Sherlock inhales swiftly, and something in the air shifts again. And every inch of John’s skin begins to tingle in a way that is not at all unpleasant.

For a small moment, John’s hand remains frozen in place, his fingers unmoving. And then, as if through some indescribable force, his fingers open, loosely wrapping themselves around Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock’s eyes fall onto John’s hand, watching it curiously as it begins to move, smoothly sliding down the length of his arm, and back up, caressing it gently. John’s fingers clutch the tiniest bit more tightly each time, but it’s pleasant—not at all forceful—until finally, he gives Sherlock’s arm a small squeeze.

Sherlock looks back up at John, stunned, observing the expression of shock that sweeps John’s features. Sherlock is trying furiously to understand it—and John seems to be doing the same.

They both know that John had intended for the touch to be simple and innocent, but somehow it doesn’t feel simple or innocent at all.

“That was—” Sherlock begins, attempting to calm the swelling in his chest. “That was rather nice.”

“It was,” John agrees, his eyes a tad bit wider than usual—and he means it.

“Why have we never done that before?” Sherlock asks mildly, though inside, he is sure he is screaming it.

“Don’t know.” John grins, because the answer, just as the question, is not as simple as it seems. “Suppose we never really had a reason to.”

It’s only then that John realises his hand continues to linger, and he lets it fall to his side. “The tea…” he says stiffly. “It’s getting cold.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, his eyes scrolling up and down John’s clenched body, and he still does not want to talk about tea.

John picks up the tray again and ventures into the sitting room, Sherlock’s presence now looming louder and larger as he trails in behind him. John carefully sets the tray onto the coffee table next to the mantel skull as Sherlock falls gracefully onto the sofa.

The room remains hushed for several minutes as John sips his tea quietly, especially quietly, _infuriatingly quietly._ Sherlock’s arm is tingling, burning from John’s touch, and it makes absolutely no sense, but he can’t stop thinking about how it felt, and he knows absolutely _nothing,_ but he knows that he wants _more._

“So,” Sherlock finally says into the silence, and John is quietly relieved— “If such a sensation can be created by a single area of contact, as we have just experienced, it stands to reason that, with multiple areas of contact, the sensation would be exponentially more powerful.”

“Yes.” John flicks his tongue out over his bottom lip, and he actively does not disagree.

“And so _this,”_ Sherlock concludes, “is why people enjoy cuddling.”

“Yes,” John says blankly. “Yep.”

Sherlock scans John’s face, and it’s both pale and flushed with excitement. Sherlock thinks he can gather, based on John’s earlier reaction, that _touch_ is something John greatly enjoys.

But he remembers the importance of asking first.

“Perhaps we should try _that,_ then,” Sherlock suggests, and John’s face becomes a deeper shade of red.

“Sherlock,” he says, laughing nervously, “that’s not a thing... that happens between friends, generally.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, and he does a terrible job of hiding his disappointment. “Why not?”

John finds himself struggling to answer the question, because he had _truly enjoyed_ touching Sherlock, and because, although it’s not something they _do,_ the two of them, as friends, as flatmates—he wants to _keep doing it._

“Well,” John coughs, “cuddling is something that is usually reserved for people who… who are… very close.”  
  
Sherlock frowns at him. “Are we not close, John? We’ve faced death together numerous times; we’ve shared countless breakfasts and lunches and dinners and you’ve seen the best and the worst of me; we’ve come to know one another’s habits and idiosyncrasies; we finish one another’s thoughts and sentences, and you know the precise intricacies of my sock index.” 

“Yes, we are definitely close,” John agrees, and he can feel his defences falling rapidly as Sherlock’s logic becomes more and more difficult to battle. “But cuddling is often more for people in... _romantic_ relationships.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes shift to the floor, his shoulders slumping as he sinks further into the sofa. “And I am not one that is prone to romantic attachments—therefore I shall never experience this particular sensation.”

John’s heart twists again, wringing out a plethora of emotions that he is absolutely not prepared to deal with—along with the absolute and immediate desire to help Sherlock become less sad.

“Sherlock,” he says, setting down his tea, pulling himself up from his chair, and adamantly not thinking of the repercussions. “Move over a bit,” he instructs. “Let me sit down next to you.”

Sherlock lifts a suspicious eyebrow as John approaches the sofa, and he thinks he can predict what may happen. “What? Why?” he asks, because he needs to know for sure.

“I’m going to try something,” John says calmly, although the rapidness of his breathing tells a different story. “I promise, I won’t do anything without asking you first.” He smiles. “And if you’re feeling uncomfortable, in _any way,_ I need you to tell me immediately. That okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mutters, and he can’t move towards the arm of the sofa quickly enough. And when John sits next to him, his body so close that he can practically take its temperature (hot, hot, hotter than normal), Sherlock’s own body thrums with anticipation.

“Right,” John says after a beat of silence. “Now I’m going to wrap my arm around your shoulders, and pull you closer to me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “That’s fine.”

So John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him in, but Sherlock immediately stiffens.

“You okay?” John asks.  

Sherlock answers honestly, because he’s feeling something so absolutely _new_ and _intense_ that he can’t put into words or into reason and it _scares him._ “I don’t know,” he says, and John pulls his arm away without hesitation.

“I’m sorry,” John says, his heart in his throat.

“No, John…” Sherlock says. “Put it back.” And he means it.

“Alright,” John says cautiously. “You sure?”

“Very sure,” Sherlock responds. “But John…”

“Yeah?” John asks, and the apprehension in the air between them is palpable.

“What am I... supposed to do… how should I... react?” His palms are sweating, and his hands are trembling, because he wants to get this _right._

John pulls him close, closer—and the warmth of his body is exhilarating. “Just do what feels natural,” he says tenderly against Sherlock’s ear. “Perhaps you can sort of, um, lean into it a bit.”

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut, and he lets his senses overtake him, and he does what feels natural, because that’s what John wants. And he turns his face into the crook of John’s neck, nuzzling against the soft skin. And he inhales, and it feels like home.

John releases a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, a satisfied sigh of relief, and he presses his own face into Sherlock’s smooth, thick curls. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, relishing the scent of John’s aftershave. “Very good.” And he means it.

And so the two of them remain, every ounce of energy going into inhaling and exhaling. Sherlock breathes into John’s neck, and John into Sherlock’s hair, and they suddenly learn to appreciate oxygen. And John’s fingers are stroking Sherlock’s arm once again, with the same crackle of electricity that had been there the first time, when John had taught Sherlock what it’s like for friends to touch.

“Sherlock,” John finally says.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asks.

“This can’t be comfortable for you. I mean, your neck… it’s likely to hurt soon.”

Sherlock’s neck is already hurting, and it’s been hurting for quite a while. It’s the very last thing on his mind, though he loves that it’s not the last thing on John’s.

“Perhaps you could lie down,” John suggests. “Spread out a bit. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable that way.”

“Alright,” Sherlock says, and he turns himself outwards, legs over the arm of the sofa, and lays his head in John’s lap, facing up. His eyes remain closed, though he wonders if he should open them, but he elects not to, because it’s a bit less terrifying.

It doesn’t terrify John, however, the way John had always thought it would, when he looks down at Sherlock lying peacefully in his lap. His hands return to their place on Sherlock’s arm, and he only feels amazement. How could he have gone so long with Sherlock in his life, never knowing what it felt like to be so close, to have this kind of contact? Knowing how much he had wanted it, but had always allowed pride and stubbornness to stand in the way?

“Sherlock,” John says, as he gets an idea, and Sherlock can feel his body vibrating as he speaks. “Some people enjoy having their hair played with,” he states. “Is that something you think you would like?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, because he _very much thinks so._ “Yes, I think I’d like that quite a lot.”

“Do you want me to... try it?” John says, his hands sliding up past Sherlock’s shoulders and hovering near his neck.

“I do want that,” Sherlock says swiftly, his scalp already tingling. “I do.”

So John glides his fingers up the nape of Sherlock’s neck, letting them pause at the place where his hair and skin meet. Sherlock shivers involuntarily, capturing a tiny sound in his throat, and John begins to card his hands through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock can feel every finger at every area of contact and where every single hair on his head seems to be rooted, and his shivering becomes more and more pronounced.

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes fly open after several indeterminable moments. John is gazing down at him, and a thrill surges through Sherlock when he wonders for how long.

“Yeah?” John responds. With the smile he gives him, Sherlock thinks that perhaps, it’s been quite a while.

“I worry that _you’re_ going to become uncomfortable now,” Sherlock says. “The way you’re sitting... It’s really not fair for me to be the only one lying down.”

“True,” John agrees. “Perhaps I should lie down, too.”

“I can move over,” Sherlock says. “Make room for you.”

“Alright,” John replies. “Face the other direction, your back towards me, and I’ll lie behind you, facing you.”

“Of course _you’ve_ got to be the big spoon,” Sherlock smiles. That’s something he had read about in Mrs. Hudson’s magazine.

John chuckles. “If you’re okay with being the little spoon.”

“I am,” Sherlock responds. “Spoon me, John Watson.”

Sherlock lifts his head off John’s lap and moves to the front of the sofa, and John sprawls out behind him, and there is a wave of bliss between their bodies that is indescribable, blissful, and magnetic.

“Sherlock,” John says, his voice a breath on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I’m going to wrap my arm around your waist, and after I do, I’m going to hold your body very close to mine. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his chest welling up, his own voice small and unguarded. “That’s okay.”

So John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s body, and the silk of his dressing gown is rivalled by the smoothness of his pale skin, and as he pulls him close, John breathes steadily, or at least he tries.

“You smell nice,” John remarks. “I sort of always guessed you would.”

“You’ve thought about how I might smell?” Sherlock asks, a lump forming in his throat.

“I have.” John laughs. His chest expands and contracts into Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock can _feel_ John laughing, and that is fucking amazing. “I have,” John repeats. “And you do not disappoint.”

“John,” Sherlock says, his face buried in his forearms. “I don’t know what to do right now... with my hands.”

“Well,” John says instantly, his fingers splaying onto Sherlock’s stomach. “You could hold _my_ hand, if you wanted to.”

And Sherlock wordlessly slides his hand into John’s, and he means it.

For a long, long time, they say nothing—there’s no need to. Their bodies are touching, and every area of contact speaks louder than any word in any language possibly could. And the silence is not just external, Sherlock notices—for the first time in as long as he can remember, his brain, his mind, has gone quiet. For the first time, he can hear, and he can listen, and as John’s breathing becomes deep and steady behind him, he finds himself wanting to drift off to sleep as well. But a sudden urge overcomes him—the urge to not only touch, smell, and hear John, but to _see_ him.

“John,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, and it’s the loveliest thing that John has ever woken up to. “If it’s alright with you,” Sherlock says, “I’d like to be able to look at you.”

“Alright,” John says groggily. “Turn around.”

So Sherlock turns his body over, repositioning himself, and their bodies are no longer touching at any area of contact. But their eyes lock together instantly, their heads filling with possibilities.  

“Sherlock,” John says plainly. “Touch me.” And he means it.

“Where—” Sherlock begins, his throat increasingly tighter. “Where would you like for me to touch you, John?”

John smiles at him. “I’ll let you decide,” he says, fearing nothing, not anymore.

“Anywhere?” Sherlock asks. His voice is lightly shaking, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” John swallows. “Anywhere.”

“Well,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “As we have previously established—the more areas of contact, the more pleasurable the experience. So perhaps we should touch in as many places as possible.”

“Good idea,” John agrees. “Where first?”

Sherlock lowers his eyes mischievously, and John’s head is swimming and his heart is pumping.

And Sherlock touches the tips of his toes to John’s.

“God, Sherlock,” John sputters out a laugh. “Not what I was expecting, but okay.”

Sherlock grins at him playfully. “Now you,” he says. “Pick the next area of contact.”

“Alright,” John says, bringing their knees together to touch, grinning.

Sherlock peers down. “I believe we’re missing some areas in between,” he observes, and he takes both of his legs and wraps them around John’s, like a vine wrapped around a tree.

The two of them laugh and laugh and laugh, and it’s absolutely ridiculous, and absurd, and insane, and silly, but it’s _them._

“Alright,” Sherlock muses for a few seconds. “Can I pick the next one?”

“Of course,” John says. “Surprise me.”

“I’ll certainly try,” Sherlock responds. “Close your eyes.”

John’s eyes instantly fall shut, and Sherlock slowly leans his head in, close to John’s, closer, closer, and he closes his own eyes as well. He presses their foreheads firmly together, and every particle of air in the room disappears.

“Oh,” John emits a stunned whisper. “That’s a new one, for sure.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Alright,” John says. He extends his arm and moves his hand to set it lightly on the small of Sherlock’s back. Though he doesn’t make a motion to pull Sherlock towards him, Sherlock chokes back a tiny whimper as his lower body arches forward into John’s. John can feel his own body drawn to Sherlock’s like a magnet, and the gap between them becomes filled, bodies pressed firmly into alignment.  

With their foreheads together, John nudges his nose against Sherlock’s, and every bit of oxygen is now being shared. One of them is breathing heavily, or perhaps it’s both. The air that joins their mouths is tingling, loud, screaming. John realises his mouth is dry, and he can feel Sherlock’s lips ghosting over his own, so close he can predict their flavour.

“Alright,” John whispers, barely audible. “I think we’ve hit most of them by now.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “All but one.”

“All but one,” John echoes, the rate of his heartbeat through the roof.

“John.” Ninety beats per minute.

“Yeah, Sherlock?” Ninety-five.

“I suppose I should ask you first.” Ninety-nine.

“Ask me what?” One hundred.

“May I touch your lips... with my lips?”

“Yes,” John exhales, as though he is choking back a sob. “Yes, Sherlock. Yes, you can.”

As Sherlock closes the space between their mouths, his heart erupts in his ears. It is but a single area of contact, but it outshines every other. It is the sensation to end all sensations, the strongest drug, the highest of all the highs. A single area of contact and he finds himself soaring, floating, and being tethered all at once. A single area of contact that speaks so very loudly, speaks of the years of pain, of joy, and of pining. Through a single area of contact flows a spark of electricity, of energy, of thrumming warmth and the wetness of one another’s lips.

John’s hands wander from Sherlock’s lower back to the back of his head, and he pushes, deepening the kiss. And then John’s hands are everywhere at once—Sherlock’s hair, his chest, his back, his sides, his arms. And John’s mouth is everywhere too. Sherlock’s forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his chin, his neck, his shoulders—and Sherlock’s brain and his heart and his body all give in to the feeling of John Watson’s lips on his skin.

It makes Sherlock feel warm and loved and protected and flustered and happy and everything he’d ever thought he could feel, along with many other things he always thought he could not.

And he thinks he may be groaning and gasping, but the moment he begins to notice it, the sounds are drowned out by John’s words in his ear. They are words that Sherlock doesn’t quite understand, because he’s frankly left the planet, but he knows he hears “beautiful” and “wanted you” and “been waiting” and “Sherlock, god, Sherlock.”

And he knows, more than anything, that John means it.

When they finally pull away from one another, the sun has set, and the flat has become dark, yet it’s unbearably hot and neither of them can _breathe._

“I suppose I truly was missing out before,” Sherlock muses, bringing his head to rest on John’s chest.

“You and me both,” John says, wrapping his arm around Sherlock and pulling him closer.

“You’ve done... all this before, haven’t you?” Sherlock asks, although he knows the answer.

“I have,” John says, turning his head to kiss Sherlock’s temple. “But... it’s never been with you.”

“And it’s... different somehow?”

“God, yes,” John says emphatically, because it _is._ Amazingly different. Incredibly different. Because that’s what Sherlock _is_. “And just to be sure you’re aware,” John says. “We have sort of... crossed out of _friend_ territory.”

“Have we?” Sherlock asks, but John knows that he is feigning innocence.

“I hope you’re okay with that.”

“John. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m _very_ okay with it.”

“Good,” John says. “Me, too.”

“So…” Sherlock continues. “No longer friends, then?”

“I should say not,” John replies.

“But we will still solve crimes together?”

“Of course,” John says, because that’s very, very important.

“Good.” Sherlock says. “Then I suppose this arrangement will work. But I’ve just got one more thing to ask.”

John smiles into Sherlock’s hair. “Yeah?” 

“John. Can I... kiss you again?”

“Sherlock,” John responds. “Yes, always, yes,” and he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/) for being an awesome beta, [unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/) for cheering me on, and to [GizmoTrinket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gizmotrinket/) for inspiring me to write a cuddle fic!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Closer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784323) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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